Waiting Room
October 10, 2025
Midmorning on a Friday. A trip to the local landfill left a leaking hole in one of my tires. The tire shop (a national chain) is ringed with worn red chairs. Decades old and sun bleached.
Mostly middle-aged men hunch over their phones, scrolling Facebook or news. The lone woman is thread-worn but clinging to youth—blouse a size too young, short skirt revealing legs that are billboards for her love of the sea: turtles, octopuses, tribal tides of ink.
Her skin seconds her love of the sea.
I wish women would not tattoo their legs (or arms or chests). They are such beautiful features, and I have never seen appendages improved by ink.
A subtle mark in a quiet place can be alluring—even evocative. But women are creatures of beauty; their bodies are art. Covering them in tattoos feels like graffitiing a masterpiece.
At the counter, the clerk is quietly explaining to a pretty young mom that she needs two tires, when two is two more than she can afford. I think I sense his trepidation at trying to upsell her, but he keeps going. It’s his job.
Two old men laugh about the old days.
“Mike,” one says.
“Ron,” the other corrects. “Mike’s my fatter, less handsome brother.”
They roar with laughter.
Car-lot camaraderie, I suspect.
A second young mom enters with her toddler. Workout clothes, immaculate hair, painted-on leggings, and a magenta strap of fabric for a top—form over function. Her right shoulder blooms with a sleeve of flowers and a circular logo in the middle. I stare too long, trying to decipher its meaning.
What’s clearer are the horse tracks climbing her spine. Barrel racer? Bronc buster? Eight-second rides memorialized in ink?
Hahaha! Do women break horses? Of course, I know they do, we dined at a horsewoman’s home during the workshop we attended a few weeks ago. I don’t recall ever seeing that at rodeos however.
Then—shock—a woman in a long skirt and brown tank top is reading a book. How pleasant to see a reader among the scrollers.
I want to stand up and declare, ‘Hear ye, hear ye! This blessed soul is transferring thoughts and intention long-considered, drafted, edited, rewritten, then set and printed into physical form. We shall laud her adherence to REAL reading!!’
And follow with,
‘By the way, I’m not like you lemmings, I’m using my device to MAKE ART. About you, ironically.’
But I do not. I just smile to myself, finish this brief and go back to my Jack and Mara story. He has just discovered he has arrived to late to see this very special woman.
I wonder if THEY will ever be indelible enough to be in ink.
I have not read you in a while. I miss how you pain pictures in my brain